


Six Months

by Dream_Wreaver



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Additional characters to be added later, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Maybe - Freeform, My First Work in This Fandom, please be kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_Wreaver/pseuds/Dream_Wreaver
Summary: A lot can change in six months. The big question is, will it?





	Six Months

**Author's Note:**

> After binging on the little there is for this pairing I decided to take a stab at it, let's see how it turns out ne?

It had been so hard to watch. The opera, the reveal, the betrayal. Never had Meg thought herself capable of hating her friend, and yet in that moment it was all too easy. It wasn’t that she blamed her, perhaps unmasking him had been the only way the soprano might break free from his thrall. Meg knew she herself certainly wouldn’t have been so strong. But still, if he wore a mask, it was for a good reason. Meg was only just strong enough to look away, barely catching a glimpse at the horror that lie beneath. Christine had described it, the morning after they had found her. Meg had no wish to see the phantom unmasked against his will. And then, things had escalated so quickly from there.

As was perhaps his due, he had been enraged. Though, Meg admitted, dropping the chandelier on everyone had been a bit over the top. Her mother had gone with the vicomte, leading him down to the phantom’s lair. Meg had wanted to go, but her mother had forbidden her. Well, she hadn’t been about to listen. Her mother might have known the quickest way down below, but Meg wasn’t nearly as ignorant as most people believed. By the time she arrived though, everyone was gone. There was a gauzy veil on the floor, and a black cloak covering a piece of furniture. When she pulled it back there was no one there either. All that remained of the phantom, was his mask. Meg was simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

As afraid of him as she was, there was something undeniably enthralling about him as well. Rather, the mystery of him anyways. She knew he was a genius, the few times her mother would speak of the Phantom -always with a rather haunted look in her eye- she would mention his many, many abilities. And something about always being under his discerning eye, it had made Meg want to do her best. At the very least she did not want to be included in one of his scathing missives delivered to the managers’ office.

She picked up the mask and held it close. But upon hearing the approaching footsteps of an angry mob which had somehow found their way below, Meg hid it in her blouse. She looked around, all trace of the phantom was gone, but it wouldn’t stop the rage. They would take it out on anything they thought he loved. If her mother’s stories were to be believed had he not already suffered enough? She had to divert them.

“Wait!” she called, ducking out of the entrance, “I saw him, he’s not here. He’s escaped through a secret passage, I think he was heading back above.”

“Where?” They had asked her.

Meg, mind and heart racing, replied, “By the gate, maybe he was headed for the Rue Scribe entrance.”

The mob went for it hook, line, and sinker. They left the lair alone. Meg hung back, trying to keep from getting swept up within the crowd without it being obvious she was staying. Her entire intention was  _ not _ to arouse suspicion. And now that they were gone, it was silent. Eerily so. Meg tried to reason, where could he have hidden himself? There had to be more than one, but would he have been so obvious as to where it was? The black cloak had been over the chair, was that perhaps the key? She reexamined the seat, checking all around for hidden buttons, or levers, or something that might indicate a hollow space. The chair itself had a box frame at the bottom, no way of seeing under the seat, it would be perfect to hide a trap door. Now the question was, how to open it?

Her mind wandered as she searched, wondering how it could have all come to this? How had she not realized before, why Christine wouldn’t know her teacher, how she had been so grief-stricken after her father’s death, and then how quickly it had stopped after she began her lessons. Of course a disfigured opera ghost would want to keep himself hidden. And then, those words, those stolen words, a declaration of love for all to see. Meg felt her heart stop upon hearing them, though Christine had essentially said the same when she confessed what had happened on that roof so many months ago. He sounded so earnest, so sincere, Meg’s heart broke for him when all Christine could do to break herself free was unmask him. And such a shame it was, Don Juan Triumphant had been a marvel to work upon for those weeks of rehearsals. And Christine, Christine had been a marvel even then, mostly.

Meg had meant what she said that night of Christine’s debut. While she heard Christine’s voice, the words, the inflection, none of it were hers. It was technically beautiful, as far as Meg could tell, but something about it lacked soul. She sung like an angel, but that angel sounded like an empty vessel from which music poured forth. Her heart, her soul, it only seemed to come around when she  _ didn’t _ sing. And more and more, it came around when she was with Raoul. Meg, as a friend was happy for Christine, but also as a friend, there was a modicum of jealousy because engaging with a lover automatically meant a weakened bond of friendship, because Christine’s heart was alight with romantic love and not platonic.

It was as she was thinking of all that she discovered the trick, a hidden notch on one of the armrests, disguised as part of the decoration. When pressed, the seat dropped down into further darkness below. Meg wished the mob had not taken the lantern she had used to aide her journey here, because she had no way of knowing what awaited her beneath. The Opera Ghost might have been hiding, afraid of numbers. But one little ballet rat? Meg feared she might make the perfect target for any lingering rage he held.

But she need not have worried. What she found as she descended, even without leaving the spot where the shaft of light flooded to the floor, was not an angry, vengeful, vindictive spirit. No, what she found was a broken man sobbing to himself as he remained curled in a little ball against the wall and the floor. Meg did not know how to interrupt this. But she knew she had to.

“Monseigneur Opera Ghost?” she questioned softly, her voice sounding loud in the echoing quiet. He stopped his sniffling with a hiccup of surprise. Not shocking, really, when she suspected he believed this to be his last bastion, and that no one should have been able to find him.

He looked up at her from the arms which had been braced about his knees, only one eye daring to peer out, “What are you doing here?” he asked, and despite the fact that he was speaking through his arms, his voice came out clear as day, from all around her.

“I,” Meg swallowed hard, suddenly nervous, “I thought you might like this,” from out of her shirt she pulled his mask and held it out to him.

“What do I need that useless scrap for?” he groused, “My shame has already been shown to all and sundry. Even you, haven’t you seen it?”

“I didn’t,” Meg replied quietly.

He scoffed, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Hard as it might be it is the truth,” Meg parried, “I may have caught a glimpse, but to do something like that against your will. I do not revel in the shame and humiliation of others.”

“No,” he replied thoughtfully, “I suppose you wouldn’t. Antoinette raised you better than that.”

“So you know who I am?” Meg tilted her head at him.

“Little Marguerite, I have known you since the moment of your birth,” he answered, “Now, have you had your fill? Will you leave me to die in peace?”

“Die?” Meg repeated, voice a horrified whisper, “No, no you can’t die.”

“And why not?” he asked her, “My angel has left me to rot in hell. What use is there in living?”

“But… but… but what about your music?” Meg asked, “Don Juan was so wonderful, it cannot be your only piece, it simply can’t!”

“Without my muse there is no music.” the phantom replied, “And what good is music with no one to hear? Do you know what music does without an audience little girl? It sustains itself for but a single moment before fading away unheard and ultimately, forgotten.”

“But, so long as it is written down, does it not survive?”

“Will you not leave me in peace you little gnat?” he asked her, “My heart is broken, my love is lost, my soul torn asunder, and now I should like to die with nothing more than the final gift she gave me. I shall die of a broken heart, much like I always dreamed I would.”

“A broken heart?” Meg raised a brow.

“My love burdened me to the point of destruction, and now I shall die from love,” the phantom replied, “Leave me to my sorrow.”

As he lay sobbing again Meg without thinking called to mind a line from the little bit of Shakespeare she had ever known. It was a powerful line, perfectly applicable in this situation, and unbidden the words rose to her lips, “Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”

That response shocked him, though whether it was because he hadn’t expected the reference, or because he wasn’t expecting such cynicism in the face of his great heartbreak, she didn’t know.

“No man has loved as I have loved!” he affirmed, sitting up and staring at her fully. Before blanching as he realized that he had not taken the mask from her before now. Quickly he snatched it and replaced it on his face. Once again he looked the indomitable phantom, but despite how he looked it was not how he acted.

“Then why would you wish to die?” Meg asked simply.

She knew there was no answer he could give to that, so the silence she received as a response did not surprise her in the least.

At last, he finally said, “I am tired, Little Giry. So very tired; tired of being shunned and hated and seen not for what I can do, but for the wickedness of this appalled face that my existence was cursed with. All I want now is to die with the remainder of my beloved’s greatest gift in my mind and fade away into the darkness I have so long called my home.”

Meg tried to appeal to the one thing that might make him think better of his decisions, “She would not want you to do this,” she said quietly, “Despite everything, Chris-” she paused, seeing him wince at the very mention of her name, “She did care for you. Not in the way you might have liked, but in her own way, she did.”

“If she truly cared for me she would have stayed!” he blustered, “If I cannot live with her love then I would rather die!” the proclamation was vehement, and passionate, and final. As if it was all he would say on the moment.

Meg remained silent for a long moment. He heard her scoff then, and was surprised. Little Giry by all accounts was not known for her derision. She was inanely, insanely positive. A quality that drew people to her even as it could be incessantly irritating.

“Pathetic,” she shook her head at him, “Very well then Opera Ghost. I shall leave you to wallow. But, to be quite honest, I’m disappointed. I thought the man who could keep an entire company suspended in terror for fear of his wrath would be reduced to begging for death.”

“I don’t see what could not be pathetic about a broken man such as I,”

“Broken? I think you mean weak,”

That stirred his temper, “Pardon?” his voice was low, and dangerous.

“Do you know what death is Opera Ghost?” she asked him, perhaps unknowing of his old moniker of the angel of death. Without waiting for him to answer she continued, “Death is a mercy. Because life is hard, and life often makes us long for death. Death is for the weak; the strong survive, and the weak die. I thought you were made of stronger stuff than most men. But if you are so inclined to die, then you’re just as weak as a normal man.”

“I am not like all those lesser men!” he raged, “I am the Phantom of the Opera! The Angel of Death!”

“Then prove it,” Meg challenged.

“How?”

“Six months,” Meg offered, “Six months you stay alive and look for something to live for.”

“How on earth does this benefit me?” he asked, “I want to die.”

“If you cannot find something to live for in six months, I will let you die in peace. No bothering, no pleading, nothing. And if you do, well then, you have something to live for again. Either way you only stand to gain something. So,” she held out her hand, “What do you say?”

He glanced between her hand and her face. Perhaps it was still emotional upheaval, he did not feel as though he were grounded in anything remotely close to reality. For all he knew, this could just be a fever dream, a ridiculous hallucination, a last-ditch effort by his body when his mind was already too weary. Either way, he could indulge a figment of his imagination.

“Done,” he replied, clasping her hand with his own. It was only after they pulled away that the phantom registered the warmth. No matter how hard he had always tried, his own mind could never conjure any other being whose skin was not as icy as his own. So if this little Giry was warm, it meant she was all too real. And the phantom had the sudden inkling he had just been played as expertly as he played upon his instruments.

The smirk on her face as she watched his reactions didn’t help. But it quickly morphed into her usual sweet and sunny disposition, “Very well then. I shall bring you some food later, unless you have provisions stored above?”

“I have food enough to last me for now. I would be more concerned with how your mother is going to react once you return to her.”

“Once I tell her the truth, she will not care,” Meg replied self-confidently, “Though she fears you, she would not want you to die either.”

“I care little for what you or Antoinette wish in regards to me.”

“Pity you’ve already given me your word,” Meg parried, “And that you’ve established yourself as someone who keeps their promises. Now, oh…” she stopped with a look of soft realization. It was coupled with a small breath of surprised laughter, “Goodness, I had never even realized…”

“What are you blathering about now?” the phantom asked grumpily. Was he mad at her, or at himself for being unable to stave off his curiosity?

“I just realized, I don’t know your name,” Meg answered.

“What makes you think I even have one?” he asked her.

“Everyone has one,” Meg reasoned, “But I suppose I could give you one if you don’t have it.”

He was silent a moment, before at last replying, “Erik, I have been known at some time as Erik.”

Meg blinked as she took this in, “Erik,” she repeated, rolling the syllables around on her tongue, testing their weight and flavor. Then she nodded, “Very well then, Erik, I shall see you at some later time, once I have smoothed over maman’s ruffled feathers. Until then, good night.”

She hoisted herself up through the opening in the seat, and he heard her footsteps grow ever fainter as she walked away. Erik noticed she had left the hatch open. Likely on purpose, if he wanted to close it he would need to get up and do so himself, and likely when he moved he would be reminded of all those bodily functions that came with living. He supposed he could wait until the candles burned out, but did he really want to was the question?

It was as he was considering these questions and more that the realization came to him. Erik, she had called him Erik, even asked for his name. Not even Christine had asked for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment and let me know what you think. Until next time everyone


End file.
